by Franz Schubert
English translation by Leon Malinofsky.
It seems to me so bitter
Yet sweet what the seasons bring,
For sadly do I witness
The flowers bloom in Spring.
Within their mother's loving arms
They slumber all so still,
But now they must when from those arms
Their ordered course fulfill, their ordered course fulfill.
The fragile children raise up
Their heads in timid fright,
Who calls us into living
From out the silent Night?
And Spring, its words of magic
With purest pleasure blows,
To lure them from their mother
Her breast and the dim shadows.
With high bridal decorum
Their splendrous dance is done,
But far now is their suitor
And fiercely glows the sun, and fiercely glows the sun.
Their sweet scent now announces
Their longing pure and mild;
That scent that soothes the air, though,
Is naught but Sorrow's child, is naught but Sorrow's child.
The blooms go sinking lower,
They turn from sky and rain--
O Mother, take us home now,
This life gives only pain, this life gives only pain.
The withered petals fall now,
Beneath light snows are press'd;
O God, so 'tis with all things,
The grave alone brings rest, the grave alone brings rest.
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